To Forget
by FashionableRaid
Summary: What Michael goes through, immediately following the scene where Kay announces she's leaving him.


A/N: Okay so I don't know how many of y'all are still out there reading these fics, but I just recently watched all three movies in a row…and my obsession rekindled so while I am stumped on my other fic I decided I NEEDED to write a Godfather fic! Please review! Originally intending to be a one-shot, but may extend between this scene and the end of the movie.

A/N 2: Credit to TheTruthBetween for editing this for me, and her extraordinary memory for alcoholic container names )))

Michael Corleone sat down with a glass of brandy in one hand, lit cigarette in the other. It had been a long day. A very long day. Right now he just wanted to forget.

Kay was leaving. Although he had forbid it, it would happen. There was no stopping it now. Not after what she had just told him… Her words echoed over and over in his mind. '_It was an abortion, Michael. It was an abortion, Michael. It. Was. An. Abortion. Michael_.'

He took a giant gulp of liquid forgetfulness, setting the glass down on the end table, maybe a little harder than necessary. He took another hit off of the burning cigarette in his right hand. _How could she_? His beautiful, loving wife. Possibly the most sensitive woman he'd ever met, maybe to a fault. She'd taken away the one thing she knew, _she knew_, would tear him apart the most. And she'd done it on purpose. Every time he even thought about it he started to feel his body go numb, while inside his blood was raging, fiery, through every vein in his body. It had taken EVERY ounce of strength, compassion, mercy… love, not to kill her where she stood.

_That BITCH._

After he'd hit her, for the first time ever, he immediately felt remorse flood through him, and he'd told her, she would not take his children from him. She could leave, she would leave… but she would go alone. She was right; he would never, could never forgive her. Every vile, nasty word he'd ever learned to describe a woman wanted to come flying out of his mouth. She'd laid there on the couch, sobbing, defiant, and he couldn't even look at her.

_Fucking bitch…_

He'd lit another cigarette before giving her a look of pure hatred and contempt, before leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. Out in the hallway the kids ran wild, playing a game of some sort. He kept his eyes to the floor, telling whoever was watching them to take them back to their room. Not to let them leave with ANYONE but him. He'd gone down the hall to one of the other rooms they'd rented before shutting the door behind him softly. The room was dark. Perfect. And on the end table there was a decanter full of brandy. It was as if god knew what he was thinking. Perfecto. He'd sunk down into the arm chair, ripping the tie off of his neck. He'd found a glass nearby, pouring it full to the top. He was planning on leaving tomorrow anyways. The trial was over. His marriage was over. He'd felt entitled to a vice.

He finished the last of his cigarette, putting it out on the table, missing the ashtray. He didn't even care. _Bill me for it,_ he thought bitterly. He picked up the glass of brandy. Good brandy; he was on his third glass. Kay's voice was starting to be a little less loud in his brain. He rubbed his temples like he always did when he was stressed. He took a stuttering breath, _no please don't,_ he begged himself. He didn't want to cry. He was stonger than that. Men didn't cry. He didn't want to admit to himself how much Kay's betrayal had hurt him. But the baby… He'd felt awful when Tom had told him it was a miscarriage, felt responsible, felt like she'd blamed him. He just didn't think… Despite his inner request, he felt something wet slide down the outside of his face.

He wiped it away, letting out a cry of anger. He threw the glass of brandy at the wall. Hard. The sound of the glass shattering was wonderful. Kind of made him feel better. He picked up the glass ashtray he'd missed earlier throwing it too. Crash. Soothing… He stood up, knocking one of the tables over. It was broken into kindling by the time he finished stomping on it. Walking over to the mirror that sat across the room above the dresser, he looked at his reflection, his face was red, wet, his slicked back hair disheveled. Giving another cry of rage he put his fist through it. Immediately he regretted it. He barely felt it, but the blood had begun to flow, before the mirror shards hit the ground. Stumbling backwards, shaking, he fell onto the bed, covering his face while the real tears began to flow.

Sobbing into his hands, he couldn't help but feel he'd brought this on himself. He thought he'd done everything he could to protect Kay and the children from this life. Clearly it hadn't been enough. Not enough to satisfy Kay… He had sworn he would make the family legitimate, and he was… very, very slowly. It was just taking too long. He was going to lose it all. Lose them all. His family business was going to cost him his family. He screamed again, this time not in anger, but in sadness. He heard the doorknob attempt to turn. It was locked. Only he had the key. And just to make sure, he'd shoved a chair under the door handle. He was alone. He would stay alone.

Eventually his sobs subsided, his face covered in blood, hand still oozing blood as it finally began to clot. He crawled across the bed slowly, reached as far as he could, grabbing the brandy decanter. _Fuck it_. He'd drink it out of the fucking bottle. He just wanted to sleep. To dream that all of this never happened. That it was all just a nightmare. He chugged, head cradled against the many hotel pillows, it burned, but it did the trick. Fifteen minutes later he felt his vision start to go black. Finally.

He wondered briefly, before passing out into oblivion, if his father had ever felt like this. Felt like life was over, wished he'd never been born. Wished he'd never become the don… He hoped slightly that the brandy would kill him, maybe he could ask his father in heaven, before he made it to hell. Maybe…

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Hours later Tom, and several men, broke through the door. Immediately upon seeing Michael passed out, Tom ushered them all out. He rubbed his forehead. He didn't know what this was all about, but it wasn't good. Not good at all. Kay had been silent, ever since Michael had left their room. He'd heard them arguing across the hall in his room, but like any good brother, minded his own business. He'd heard the door slam and seen Michael pass the peephole, barking at whoever was watching the children to take them back to their room. Minutes later, after the children had left, he'd walked across the hall to talk to Kay. She just kept shaking her head, refusing to talk. Frustrated, he'd gone to find Michael. Michael was usually so calm and collected, almost cold. But from assessing Kay's behavior and the redness on her cheek, things were not good. Michael was losing it. Hard.

Tom sighed. He'd been waiting for shit to hit the fan, ever since he'd told Michael about the miscarriage. Then on top of everything else there was the trial. He knew Michael was stressed. He'd admitted it once or twice to Tom in confidence, but never gone into specifics. As he'd checked every floor of the hotel, he'd found a couple of their men to help him look for Michael. He'd been nowhere to be found. As they were about to re-group, call in reinforcements, Tom had heard a crash. Then another. And a scream. It was Michael. He'd tried to open the door but it was locked.

He held up a hand to stop one of the goon squad before they kicked down the door. He didn't hear anyone else in the room. Just Michael screaming again; minutes later everything was quiet. Hoping Michael wasn't dead or anything, Tom signaled for the men to kick in the door. The door broke open hitting a chair that had been shoved up under the handle. They barged in, ready to kill someone, if necessary. The room looked like a tornado had come through it. Broken tables, a broken chair, mirror shattered, blood everywhere. Then Tom smelled it. Alcohol. The unmistakable burning smell. He looked again over at Michael, who lay completely still on the bed, covered in blood. He was breathing still, not dead, snoring a little… Tom signaled the men to leave, attempting to shut the broken door as much as he could.

He walked over to Michael, surveying the damage. Michael's face and hands were covered in blood, the hand with the most blood, clutching an empty brandy snifter. _Jesus, Michael… If you wanted to be assassinated, you couldn't have made it any easier… _Tom thought, sighing. Michael hadn't budged when they'd broken in the door. Tom shook his shoulder; Michael gave a loud snore, but didn't wake. Tom sighed again. He walked back outside told the one of the men to stand guard outside, not to let anyone in. He told the other to go down the front desk and have the concierge send a maintenance worker to replace the door. Then stand guard, until Michael emerged…

This was not good…

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Michael awoke the next day. Even in the darkness of the room, his eyes felt like they were going to fall right out of his skull. He was still alive. Damn… He would have to face everyone; he didn't even want to see Kay… He got up, walking to the bathroom, his hand throbbed painfully. He took a leak, before turning on the shower. Minutes later, he was undressed, standing under the burning hot water. He rubbed the blood off his face watching it flow with the water, watching his blood swirling down the drain… So this must be hell.


End file.
